


Clean Up Shop and Go Home

by thescrewtapedemos



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, M/M, Mind Control, Minor Violence, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-06
Updated: 2012-04-06
Packaged: 2017-11-03 03:16:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/376515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescrewtapedemos/pseuds/thescrewtapedemos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Karkat Vantas gets religion in a wicked way. </p><p>:o)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clean Up Shop and Go Home

Your face is being ground into the slimy wall of a dark alley by a blue-blood a sweep older and nearly twice as heavy.

There are no thoughts in your brain, and there is no voice in your throat, and there is no struggle in your limbs. Your pants around your ankles don’t matter. The bulge writhing against your ass doesn't matter. The hot, sour breath in your ear doesn't matter.

You do not exist. You tell yourself this and work until you believe it. 

:o)

The blue-blood almost-adult squeals as he’s yanked away.

The cold air against your skin is a blessing and a wake-up call. You whirl and don’t bother with your pants, only your strife-specibus. The sickles are comforting weight in your hands.

He’s barely older than you, your savior, his eyes not even gaining their blood-color identifier, but he’s so tall he can be nothing but a high-blood.

You think deliriously of prison-shanks and the trees that grow on the river, long and thin and silvered and so sharp. So simple, raw-boned, deadly. He holds the blue-blood away from him with one hand, careless, a club in the other.

He’s gorgeous.

He’s wearing the clown paint. He’s a devotee of the Mirthful Messiahs, and they are dangerous, and they are illegal. They are to be killed on sight by order of the Condesce herself. Your sickles are back in your specibus. They won't do you any good against a subjuggulator.

The club spins like a centrifuge and midnight-dark blood spatters up the wall.

You throw up, as carelessly as the murder, businesslike.

The club nudges your side gently, tipping you away from the watery bile. You grab your pants and pull them carefully up. You wonder if this clown will rape you too.

You feel numb.

He looms, the mirthful paint obscuring his features, emphasizing his glittering eyes. They are bloodshot, threaded with a dark color, probably purple.

He captchalogues his club and touches a freezing fingertip to your chin, tilting his head as if you were a display he wanted to view at every angle.

“Best be getting your motherfucking move on, brother,” the clown-boy tells you, turning away. His voice is grated and broken. He shambles down the alley like a walking scaffold, improbably thin, improbably long, something distorted.

The blue-blood stares up at you when you look down. 

:o)

You dream that night, wrapped up in your recuperacoon. Fitfully, waking up and reaching out to phantoms, you dream of your savior.

You straddle his lanky body and wipe the waxy facepaint away.

His face comes away with the paint, there is nothing left of his features but the yellow, intense, bloodied eyes. They leak purple and white pus. The silver-gray skin is bruised into an obscene smile.

Hot breath on your skin and a club smashing through your ribs. Your own sickle, slicing through your belly, your intestines spilling across the floor, festooned over his purple shirt, over his long and curving horns. He licks up your scarlet blood, he paints it over your skin and walls.

You dream of panting into each other’s mouths and of cold, cold hands touching you everywhere, _everywhere_. You hear the voice, that voice, in your head, in your mind, telling you that you are loved.

You wake hot and clutching at the wall for reality. 

:o)

The clown is everywhere out of the corners of your eyes.

You see traces of white on every tall, thin face. You see the yellowed gaze behind your eyelids, in the dark you can’t stop checking behind you. You see, now, the dark slashes of paint on the walls, the smiling face with the nose, the honks with their capitalization like jagged teeth.

You feel the rasp of his voice along your eardrums and you look and there’s nothing there.

You think you’re obsessed. 

:o)

There’s a night that you can't take it anymore. There’s a night with too much heat under your skin, too much itch behind your eyes.

You leave the dark of your hive-cave and enter the brighter dark of the streets.

You need, what you need is serendipity. You don’t have a plan and you think, dreamily, that if you did then you wouldn’t see the clown. Sometimes, nonsensically, so much heat in the pit of your stomach, you think ' _my clown_ '.

You move with a hand to the wall, touching every purple-paint nose you find. There are so many, you don’t know why you hadn’t noticed them before. 

:o)

You wake up to find the clown is walking next to you. There is mustard blood dripping from his hair and the tip of his nose, off his hands, over his Capricorn symbol. You smell the ozone crackle of psionics in the air.

He stops in the darkness between street-lamps and you turn to the clown-faced troll. He is so tall, so thin, you think, a body made of wire and grease-paint.

The clown reaches out and paints a line over your cheekbone in yellow, in frozen and tingly skin.

“Who are you?” you ask, helpless and wanting the touch again. The fingertip paints a curve under your lip. You shiver and his grin is obscene.

“Motherfucking lord and savior, dearest brother,” he whispers, ringing your eyes in the slick-sticky blood, “Here from on motherfucking high to bring the mirth and goddamn miracles, just for you.”

“Oh god,” you whisper and your lips brush his fingertips. He gathers blood from his own mouth, yellow and purple mixed sickening indigo-brown, and he paints your lips with it.

“That's the motherfucking idea.” He grates another dark laugh.

You follow him like a lamb next to a wolf, shivering and hot with need, and he stops you in front of a window. You are a dark-painted grin and hollowed-out eyes and bleached silver skin where blood has not stained. You are ugly with the wicked ways.

“Should you motherfucking chose to accept it,” he murmurs in your ear, bent and looming close over you. He traces a fingertip down your cheek and you bite back a groan.

“What is it?” you ask, though you know it doesn't matter. You have already chosen.

“Motherfucking salvation all up in this bitch. Mirthful, and wicked, and goddamn miraculous.” His broken voice in your ear is the only benediction you need.

“Karkat,” you tell him.

“Gamzee,” he tells you. 

:o)

“That's the way you clean up shop, motherfucker, kill and kill until there is nothing left.” Gamzee laughs as he preaches and twirls a stained club. It whistles past your ear and you do not flinch.

“Why haven't you killed me yet?” you ask. You are lost in the deep, cracked gaze.

“Don't kill that what's already dead, brother.” Gamzee bites your cheek gently and chuckles when you moan. Your paint is dark, not like his, and stains his teeth when he bites you like that. You mixed your own blood into the waxen sludge, and his. It is a color between red and indigo. Blasphemous fuchsia.

You do not remember where you are. You do not know how long you have been awake. You do not remember how much of the blood staining your hands was your sole responsibility.

You only know that your Messiah is right motherfucking here.

:o)


End file.
